


Wonder

by sasha_b



Category: King Arthur (2004)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-06
Updated: 2014-07-06
Packaged: 2018-02-07 15:44:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1904619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/pseuds/sasha_b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur desires something different.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wonder

**Author's Note:**

  * For [speakmefair](https://archiveofourown.org/users/speakmefair/gifts).



> Happy slightly late birthday to [](http://speak-me-fair.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://speak-me-fair.livejournal.com/)**speak_me_fair** whom I have known for a long time and am very glad to have done. I wish her many solar returns and send lots of love.  <3

  
Arthur wonders, in the dead of night, alone and cold and with the brazier completely banked, if one day he might not wake this way.

He stumbles over his trousers that lay haphazardly on the floor; cursing, he picks them up and folds them neatly, setting them over the arm of the large chair next to his desk. He stirs the coals in the brazier, their orange glow normally a comfort, especially on those nights when he's just returned from a trip and has been soaked by rain for more days than he cares to count. Naked, he stands next to the iron holder and refuses to cross his arms over his chest, strength something he has come to loathe from the never-ending effort of being _strong_.

He shouldn't expect more, really. The knights have their own business to attend to - certainly on a night they've buried a brother. He knows what they do, he just doesn't choose to get involved. And yet, watching them come back inside the garrison, palms bloody and foreheads bloody, he thinks _jealousy, thou art an evil thing_ , he wishes, that someday he might be wanted along on their -

It is a Sarmatian custom, and Arthur will not interfere with what his men need to do in order to survive their indenture.

Guilt and grief, two great black winged crows (he shudders at the cliched imagery, ashamed at his self loathing and selfishness) alighting on his overburdened shoulders, press him down and he finds his arms, which he'd been holding stiffly at his sides, bend as though to reach for his knees or the floor or the hard earth or any place he can lay his body and just sink away, dissolve and disappear and never be seen again. He wants peace. He's had enough, and there is no _enough_ in this life and he sucks in a rageful breath and looks at his father's giant sword hanging in its rightful place on the wall.

Crossing to his dressing table, he touches the sword that hangs next to it, his right pointer finger caressing the blade, a thin line of blood dripping _pat pat pat_ to the floor. The oil lamps that flicker in his rooms give little light, and the musk of what he'd been doing earlier still floods the room, as though the other man was still there and Arthur hadn't woken alone as he always does, cold and wondering and brutally aware that he is _Roman_ and the other man isn't and just what does that mean for their lives - just what will it mean for the conscript he's come to lo-

He bits his lip to silence his thoughts and quickly opens a small box that sits upon his dressing table, drawing the cross that hangs on a leather thong out and over his head and the chill of the iron burns his chest and he stands there, looking at Excalibur, feeling the ice of the metal of his father's cross against his skin.

*

The next evening Arthur is in the great hall, maps in hand, stylus in his mouth, bags under his eyes that speak to his exhaustion, but he remembers _strength_ even though he hates it, and smiles at his men when they ask him for the next day's plans and _come have a cup with us, commander,_ and he claps Bors on the shoulder in passing but when he's alone he sits, slumping, head listing to the great round table, neck bent and eyes closed.

"Why don't you go to bed, Artos?"

"Because I find I don't sleep any better there than I might here," he answers perfunctorily, voice muffled by his mouth's proximity to the table. "What do you want, lieutenant?"

A low laugh echoes through the room that has Arthur's hackles rising, and he lifts his head, meeting Lancelot's gaze in a heated stare that forces a long whistle out of the other man. He sits next to Arthur at the wooden monstrosity and thumps his feet up on it.

"What's got you in a snit?"

Lancelot's hair is wilder than usual and Arthur can see traces of blood still decorating the prominent cheekbones that are almost sharp enough to cut. The other man's cut hand is wrapped in a strip of linen, the long fingers elegant even partly covered. Arthur licks his lips and blinks, suddenly so tired of _this_ he can barely move.

"Too many orders from Londinium, too little sacks of grain, too little weapons being resupplied, not enough men to cover the section of the Wall we've just been ordered to cover, and not enough wine in the whole world to make things right."

Arthur slaps the stylus he's been holding down on the table and grips at the edge, his fingers turning white. "And to be perfectly honest if I never saw rain again, I'd be much happier. And if Llamrei kicks at me once more - "

Lancelot has moved to sit in front of Arthur on the table, and his smile - Arthur frowns and raises his eyebrows, running a hand through his crazy snarl of too long hair. "What?"

"You are incredibly amusing when you're like this," Lancelot answers. He swings his feet on either side of Arthur's chair, his boots dropping clods of mud that make Arthur want to cringe and locate a broom as fast as possible. He drops his eyes to Lancelot's lean thighs, and remembers what they feel like to his hands, thick strong muscle, clenching, warm, smooth skin, rumbling laughter and words spoken only in the heat of the moment, in his quarters, soft light and even softer touch and his face blanches and he wonders _again_ if one day that feeling will last through the damn night.

Maybe one day Lancelot won't slip out unnoticed. Or maybe Arthur's deluding himself into thinking anything beautiful and right could be gifted to him, the son of a Castus whose image is too great to ever think of overshadowing it.

Excalibur's son, he thinks, that's all I am.

"I need to sleep," he says suddenly, all fire gone out of him. He stands, pushing back the chair, and Lancelot jumps lightly to the ground, slender fingers brushing Arthur's messy curls. "I'll walk you," he says. Swinging his arms and standing next to Arthur, the Roman gets a whiff of Lancelot's musk and closes his eyes, swaying, exhausted, empty, the fucking guilt and grief clawing at his brain.

*

In the middle of the night, this time when Lancelot makes to slip out, Arthur's awake and he, in horrid reflection of the battle they'd fought a few days before, finds himself at Lancelot's side once more, catching the other man's arm before he can dress fully.

The coals from the brazier flicker over Lancelot's pale skin, his multiple scars thick and ropey and Arthur's hand drops from his arm and touches the largest one, an ugly thing that winds over the bottom of Lancelot's ribs on his left side. He draws a finger over it, time and again, and Lancelot shudders, his dusky eyelashes dusting his cheeks when he narrows his eyes, his leathers low slung and hanging from his jutting hip bones and suddenly Arthur can't do anything but jerk Lancelot to him and they're on the floor and Arthur bangs his knees on the stone and Lancelot's leathers are gone again and the brazier shudders from their movements near it and the coals pop as Arthur loses himself in flesh that's warm enough to scorch the skin from his bones.

*

When he wakes later, aching and weary and cold, he looks up, light glowing through the warped glass telling him dawn is near. He drags himself to his knees and shaking, casts his eyes about for a tunic - Lancelot hands him a wadded up piece of black fabric, and Arthur slides it on, rising to his feet, his bare buttocks mostly covered by the shirt. He takes a step and stumbles, his traitorous left leg having fallen asleep from his precarious slumber on the floor.

Excalibur winks at him, the light from the new sun reflecting off its blade.

Arthur sits heavily on the bed, his hands gripping his hair, pulling, tugging, a few strands coming loose from the force of his grip.

Lancelot seats himself next to Arthur, naked, skin bruised and floor burned and he laughs.

"If you'd wanted me to stay the night, Arthur, you could try asking."

When Arthur raises his head to look anywhere but at Lancelot, no answer on his lips, the sword is still staring at him, shining, bright, pristine, unafraid, not alone.

Arthur humps over his knees and lowers his gaze from the thing he cannot imagine ever being worth carrying. Weakness, despair, self pity, self loathing, guilt, grief. He does not deserve to carry his father's sword, and he does not deserve to have this gift next to him.

A rooster screams and he starts but he remains seated, Lancelot's long leg next to his, and he wonders if waking this way is any better than the way he had been waking before.


End file.
